


A Mirror, Darkly

by hallahart



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drama/Romance, Eluvians, Elves, Eventual Reconciliation, F/M, Falon'din - Freeform, Mentions of Briala/Celene, Orlais, Politics, Slow Burn, Stilted Reunions, The Masked Empire, Wild Lore Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallahart/pseuds/hallahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A familiar mage returns to Skyhold, and Inquisitor Lavellan is thrust into a tangled web of magical intrigue and politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awake

War was sacrifice and destruction, death and stench. War was holes in the sky, demons in the soil, blight in the soul.

Peace was paperwork. Endless paperwork. Somehow, nobody ever sang songs about that part.

Mara Lavellan stared down the piles of parchment on her desk, fingers pressed to her temples. Perhaps in fifty years they’d find her skeleton there, hunched over a decaying desk, and think, oh, yes, the Inquisitor, remember her? Wasn’t she supposed to mark up those Fereldan trade agreements? What a pity.

And yet— Josephine was expecting them by dawn, and Lady Montilyet’s disappointed expression was not something she could face on two hours of sleep.

And besides, if they wanted the Inquisition to survive, they needed paperwork, and lots of it. What did a pseudo-religious military force do once the war was won? What place did they have in the world? Their only true territory was a single fortress with snowy supply lines through treacherous mountains and their authority was legally tenuous, despite the full-throated support of Divine Victoria and their post-Corypheus popularity. For all of Josephine’s diplomatic skill, their mere existence made the great leaders of the world nervous.

A year on, and the question had not been settled. But disbanding would create a power vacuum that would plunge Thedas into another war, or so her advisers assured her, and she tended to agree… though sometimes the absurdity of it all still struck her, the sheer distance between her then and her now.

She'd once privately hoped that after the Breach was closed, the Inquisition could lay down its arms, job well done, and disappear into history. Become a legend sung about at pubs. Once, that had meant returning to Clan Lavellan. Later it had meant… other things.

She didn’t entertain those hopes anymore. The Inquisition was her life, now— her family, for better or for worse. One she’d made for herself; one she’d bled for. She was no longer the wide-eyed First who’d sneaked her way into the Conclave, all those years ago.

And, truth be told, she didn’t see many— _any_ — others stepping up to take on the work that needed to be done. The fractured nobility of Orlais, still reeling from the civil war, left Empress Celene with little time for the logistics of reconstruction. And Fereldan's king, for his good intentions, was hamstrung by infrastructure still recovering from the Blight and, more recently, demons falling from the sky. For all that that they’d saved the world, much had been destroyed. Sometimes destroyed on her order. Sometimes destroyed by her mistakes.

It became a mantra, thrumming in her head from the moment she woke until the moment her mind finally quieted at night: rebuild.

She knew, deep in her gut, that Corypheus had only been the herald of something worse to come. He’d torn a hole in the sky and turned the world on its head. What he’d set in motion hadn’t been— couldn’t have been— solved by merely killing him.

An explosion of black powder can kill a man or two, Bull said to her once, but the wall it brings down can kill a thousand.

Silence from the north, strange rumors to the west, unrest along every border. Their tenuous peace was built on top of mysteries upon mysteries— surely, this could only be the eye of the storm. They had to be ready. So, yes, she would work her fingers to the bone, she would negotiate with every irritating noble in Thedas, she would read endless books of etiquette, and she would lose so much sleep that purple rings would become permanent fixtures around her eyes.

It wasn’t as if sleeping gave her any peace.

Josephine’s neat script blurred on the page, and Mara rubbed her eyes, taking a deep gulp from the mug of long-cold tea at her side. She could have warmed it with a thought, but the bitter dregs kept her more alert. A warm, fragrant drink was the last thing she needed in the quiet of her quarters, with her ridiculous Orlesian bed looking so warm and inviting across the room.

Skyhold was silent as a ruin in the early hours before dawn. Most of her people were sane enough to be asleep— save, perhaps, Dagna, whose terrible sleep schedule rivaled her own.

A ruin. She would have expected a ruin, had someone told her about an abandoned castle in the ass-end of the Frostbacks, untouched for long enough centuries to be forgotten. And yet, despite some holes in the ceilings and overgrown shrubbery, it was the perfect fortress for their needs, abandoned by gods-knew-who, built upon layers and layers of masonry from long-dead civilizations, humming with ancient magic in its marrow. Convenient enough that her people had cried divine providence— and they were desperate enough, then, not to ask too many questions. She stared up at the frescoes painted above her bed, still as fresh as the day they’d dried, and tried, for the thousandth time, not to wonder.

A knock at her door startled her out of her reverie— no, not a knock, a _slam_ — and in a moment her door was kicked in off its hinges, all her wards shattering like they were glass and not the work of months. She started to her feet, all fatigue gone, staff in hand and fire on her lips in an instant.

Assassins? But from where? A hundred possibilities flashed by in an instant— Venatori? Crows? Qunari? Plenty had cause to want her dead— fewer had the ability to break the wards of one of Thedas’ most powerful mages, and fewer still could do it so easily.

“Inquisitor—!” A strangled voice in the shadow of her stairway— rough, stricken, pained. Familiar. She couldn’t place it right away. Her grip on the veil, ready to ignite at a thought, faltered.

A twisted wooden staff, tattered clothes, pale skin, a flash of black feathers, and—

“— _Morrigan_?”

The Witch of the Wilds collapsed on her doorstep, dark hood falling away to reveal her face, lips blue with cold and her eyes bloodshot and wild, a fever high in her cheeks. Her raven-black hair was matted and tangled, thick with ice and dirt. She was so far from the confident woman who had lectured her — lectured _him_ — about Elven mythology that she was nearly unrecognizable. But her yellow eyes, dimmed as they were, were unmistakable.

Worst of all was her expression— a rictus of uncomprehending fear. Mara knelt down, feeling her for injuries and illness, tugging on the veil for help and feeling the whispers of the well brush against her mind.

Morrigan gasped, shying away from something only she could see, babbling nonsense. She pointed at the air behind Mara, towards the starry frescoes on her ceiling, and, in a great effort before unconsciousness claimed her, cried out in a voice thick with terror—

“ _The wolf… the wolf is awake!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...What, was that the wrong apostate?
> 
> Er, fair warning, the rating will probably go up as we go on. Veeerry slow burn here, though.


	2. Glimpses of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our advisers bicker, something surprising is found in a backpack, and Bull has some choice words.

“She’ll recover, my Lady. Nasty fever, frostbite— won’t lose any fingers, but it was a close thing. She’ll be out for a few days. Doesn’t look like she’s had a bite to eat in a week or three, so I expect she’ll be right hungry.”

Mara released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you, Rylan. Keep us updated on her condition, would you? And it goes without saying, but — try to discourage gossip.” No one had seen Morrigan stumble into Skyhold, but there were already whispers about the night’s commotion.

He nodded. “One more thing, your Worship. Her belongings.” he handed a tattered satchel to Mara, who staggered a little when she took it. It was heavier than it looked.

Healer Rylan bowed his way out of the room. A stony silence followed in his wake. Josephine, Bull and Cullen all stared after him, lost in their own thoughts. Bull had taken on the Spymaster’s role after Leliana’s departure for the seat of the Divine. Not a smooth transition by any means— plenty of Leliana’s people chafed under the command of a Qunari, Tal-Vashoth or not— but Mara trusted him implicitly.

They were all still in their bedclothes. Josephine even had on a lacy nightcap. It would have been funny, under any other circumstance.

Moonlight streamed through the war room's windows, the markers on the map casting long shadows across the table. The stars were bright and clear in the cold mountain air of the Frostbacks.

Cullen sighed, rubbing at the furrow of his brow. “I expected to wake up to a stack of Fereldan trade papers. Not this.”

At the mention of the trade papers, Josephine’s gaze flicked to Mara, who sighed. “They’re nearly done, Josie. On my desk. _Something_ interrupted me.”

A small smile flashed across Josephine’s face before disappearing back into her worried expression. “Thank you, Inquisitor,” she murmured.

Bull crossed his arms. “So about the witch who broke in under the nose of every guard in Skyhold…”

Cullen’s face hardened. “Yes, tell us, how _did_ a single apostate avoid every one of our spies in the damned Frostbacks?”

Josephine’s voice rose over Cullen’s, “Weren’t those wards built to be impenetrable? This should have been impossible!”

“No magic, however powerful, is truly infallible,” Cullen said, “Which is why our over-reliance on magical wards is foolish, as I’ve said countless times--”

The tension in her skull, a close companion for months, became more insistent. Mara closed her eyes when her vision swam, rubbing at her brow, veins hot and anxiety churning in her gut. She would have liked nothing more than to slam her first on the war table, startle them into silence, release some of this stress— but she had a role, and she needed to play it.

“Enough,” she said, quiet but firm, interrupting their argument. “None of us like to be awakened by alarms and shouting. But enough with the damned bickering.” The Anchor pulsed in time with her heartbeat, sending sharp pains up her arm. She rubbed at her hand under the table, willing herself to calm.

Bull nodded, giving her a piercing look. “Sorry, Boss. And no offense meant, Commander.”

Cullen shook his head and waved aside the apology. “Aside from the security concerns— which we can come back to later— how do we deal with Morrigan?”

“This was no assassination attempt,” Bull said. “She’s desperate and starving. Seems to me she's in over her head."

“What do we know about her movements after she left Skyhold?” Mara asked.

“Not much,” Bull admitted. “She was going west, then south. Last we saw, she was traveling with the kid in the Emerald Graves. Stopped by a few Inquisition camps for water and rations. Didn’t talk much. Wasn’t trying to conceal her movements, far as we could tell.” He rubbed his chin. “There were some unsubstantiated rumors about her in Denerim not long after. Long way to travel in just a few weeks.”

Josephine frowned. “What were her words to you, Inquisitor? About the wolf?”

“‘The wolf is awake,’” Mara recited. “Means as much to me as it does to you.” She shrugged. “She’s sick. Could just be the fever making her talk nonsense.” It felt untrue the moment she said it. Morrigan had been afraid of _something_ , something more than shadows.

“Could she be under the geas? From the well?” Bull asked.

Mara hesitated. “I could sense it still on her. But it was quiet— background noise. I didn’t sense a… command there. But I’m no expert.”

“Where is her son?” said Josephine. “Kieran, correct?”

Mara shook her head. “He wasn’t with her, which is odd. I can’t see her abandoning him. Not after…” she remembered the Eluvian and how close Morrigan had held him, how she’d have done anything to protect him from Flemeth— no, from Mythal.

She hefted Morrigan’s satchel, forgotten in the argument, and looked inside. It held just one thing— an orb, clear and pure as the finest glass, untouched by dirt or scratches. When the warmth of her fingers through the bag’s fabric reached its surface, it glowed, faint at first and then bright, luminous as the moon. Lit up, she could see the fine grooves marked into its surface, intricate designs mimicking leafless trees, identical to the vallaslin that once adorned her face.

She tossed it away, fingers stinging. The orb landed with a muted thunk on the stone floor and rolled out of the satchel, settling in the far corner of the room, dim again.

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she hissed, fingers stinging. “Don’t touch it.”

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, reaching out and taking a step back at the same time.

“I’m fine,” she said, taking a deep breath. “It’s elven, clearly. Like the orb that created the Breach but— different.” She paused, and shook her head. It would be foolish to handle it without knowing what she was dealing with. “I’m not going to probe it without some answers from Morrigan first. It’s powerful, that's for certain.” She sighed, shaking out her still-tingling fingers. The last time she’d touched an ancient elven artifact, things hadn’t exactly gone well.

“What was it doing in her… rucksack?” said Josephine.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She sighed and straightened up, looking each of them in the eye. “We’re feinting at shadows until Morrigan wakes up. I suggest we stay alert, but I agree with Bull— she’s not our best friend, but she’s not an enemy, either. Give her a room in the guest wing until she wakes. Cullen, double the guard on the walls and post men outside her rooms. Who knows who or what is on her trail. Josephine, do your best to downplay this to the trade delegation— tell them the alarm was a mandatory training drill, or something— I don’t care. Bull, I want a report on how Morrigan got past our defenses on my desk by this evening. Somebody had to have seen something. Keep in mind she’s a shapeshifter— but our mages should have sensed that.” She paused. “And get Dagna up here to isolate the orb. I don’t want anyone touching it.”

They all nodded. “Dismissed,” she said, eyes snapping back to the orb in the corner.

Cullen and Josephine left, but Bull lingered. “A word, Boss?”

She wrenched her eyes away from the orb. “What can I do for you, Bull?”

He gave her one of those _assessing_ looks she’d grown to resent, just a little, if only because they meant he was about to say something irritatingly insightful.

“Spit it out,” she sighed.

He frowned down at her. “Right. Cards on the table. Cullen and Josephine are too polite to say anything, so I will. You need a vacation.”

Her sudden laugh was more of a bark. “Right. Let me just tell the Fereldan delegation, the rioters in Val Royeaux and the ancient elven artifact lying in my war room to all just _piss off_ , the Inquisitor needs a soak at the hot springs.”

Bull frowned. “Fine. Then maybe you need a nap. A _real_ one. Heard Dorian got you some _insomnus_ his last visit to the mage colleges. Tricky dosage with that shit. Careful.”

She bristled. Of course Dorian had told him. Or Dorian told someone who told Bull. Or Bull controlled the insomnus dealer himself. Probably all three.

"How _is_ Dorian? The last letter I got, he'd run out of his favorite cologne on the road and was pretty torn up about it. Any updates?"

Bull snorted. "Yeah. Nice try."

Right, like she could fool an ex-Ben-Hassrath. “I work late nights, all right?"

He shook his head. “We all do. And you’re good. The best. And I’m the last guy to accuse anyone of becoming their work. But even Viv’s worried about you, Boss. You look like hell.” He held up his hands, sensing her annoyance. “All I’ll say.”

She sighed, irritation draining out of her in an instant, and rubbed a hand over her face. She could picture the anxious conversations they were all having behind her back. Who had decided that it was Bull who should confront her? Varric, before he’d left to sort out his ‘unfinished business’ in Kirkwall? Or had it truly been Dorian? He had certainly fretted over her on his last visit.

“I’m fine, Bull. Really. Thanks,” she said, meaning, at least, the last part. “Maybe I’ll… rest my eyes for a bit before the meeting.”

Bull crossed his arms, his lone eye skeptical. “It’s a start.”

 

* * *

 

She had the finest silk sheets in Thedas. Her blankets were made of the softest wools. Her enchanted fire heated the room to perfection. Her eyes were heavy and growing heavier with every blink. So why couldn’t she _sleep_?

She hadn’t touched the insomnus in weeks— all she’d had the night before was cold tea. She rolled onto one side, curling into a ball, staring at the spot on the stairs where Morrigan had fallen, incoherent and half-dead.

_The wolf is awake._

She finally had a moment to think about what those words meant. A woman under the geas of Mythal, terrified of a wolf, and carrying nothing but an ancient elven artifact— an orb that could be sister to the one that had touched her with the power of a god. She wondered that none of the others made the connection— but then, no other elves were left in her inner circle.

There was only one wolf in their pantheon.

It wouldn’t take any child of the Dalish long to put two and two together, much less the once-future Keeper of Clan Lavellan. And after meeting Mythal in the flesh, little could surprise her.

For a while after they returned from the Temple of Mythal— and after everything that came in the wake of that battle— she’d grasped towards her old faith in the gods, trying for some of the comfort they used to give her. Every prayer fell flat on her lips. She’d always known the gods to be absent, locked away— but how could she truly believe in their _divinity_ after everything she’d seen? From everything Morrigan had told them, Flemeth was a cruel, twisted mother, and a worse grandmother, bent wholly on scheming and vengeance— hardly the benevolent dispenser of justice her Keeper had lectured about.

They were all lies, weren’t they? And if not lies— mistranslations, misunderstandings, details forgotten and twisted by centuries.

And somehow, being hoisted up as a semi-divine figure herself had soured the whole enterprise altogether. No— she didn’t reach for the Gods, not anymore.

An old voice echoed in her head: _I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty._

She touched her face, tracing the lines of where Mythal’s vallaslin used to be, and soothed herself into a restless sleep.


	3. Dead God's Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan wakes up. A plan is hatched. Cullen is not impressed.

“Welcome back,” Mara said, settling into the chair beside Morrigan’s bed.

The witch had woken sooner than the healers expected— hardly an hour had passed after they’d wrapped up the day’s talks with the Fereldan delegation that one of Rylan’s apprentices had come running to her with the news.

Morrigan’s eyes were puffy and half-lidded, but they shone with an intelligence she recognized— nothing of the dumb terror she’d seen the night before. “My thanks, Lady Inquisitor. Your underlings have been more than kind.”

“I should think so,” she said with a sunny smile, leaning back in her chair. “They’re terrified of you.”

Morrigan’s lack of concern suggested she got that a lot. Mara could relate. “I imagine few are particularly happy about my return.”

Mara shrugged. “I’m glad you made it to Skyhold at all. Our healers said you were a step from death.”

“So it seems. I admit, my memory of last night is not as vivid as I would like.”

“Really? You don’t remember breaking my wards, barging into my quarters and collapsing on my doorstep?”

“If your wards were broken, it was not _my_ power.” She didn’t know Morrigan or her mother well, but Mara suspected neither of them could give a straight answer if they tried.

“Oh, the orb’s power, you mean?” At Morrigan’s cornered expression, she said, “Don’t worry. It’s safe. And we won’t keep it from you, if you wish it returned.”

Morrigan's fingers clenched. “’Tis not the _orb’s_ safety that concerns me. No one has handled it?”

“Not directly, no.” Dagna had managed to isolate it in a safe container, but not before needling Mara for the opportunity to study it. Mara managed to escape before giving in to her puppy-dog eyes— the last thing they needed today was for Dagna to accidentally open a breach in the undercroft.

Morrigan’s relief was palpable. “I expect you have questions,” she said, rubbing her eyes, which were bare of their usual kohl. It made her look oddly young. “And I expect I have little choice in the matter.”

Mara frowned. “You aren’t our prisoner, Morrigan.”

Her eyes darted to the door. “The guards posted outside suggest otherwise, Inquisitor.”

“They’re for your protection.” She paused. "You did help fight Corypheus, you know. No one here is your enemy."

Morrigan snorted scornfully. “What hunts me will not be deterred by four men with spears.”

Mara leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Enlighten me, then.”

Morrigan sighed and turned, staring out the window at the sun setting behind the castle walls. “After I left Skyhold last, Kieran and I traveled southwest for a time, hunting a rumor— one that was just that, a rumor. We turned east into Fereldan, to search for an eluvian I had heard whispers of there. But it was not two weeks into our travels, outside Denerim, that I received a… message, of sorts.”

“From?” Mara prompted, after a moment of silence.

“My… mother. Mythal, I suppose I should say.” She shook her head. “It was not the whispers from the well that I have grown accustomed to. It was her, in my head— the geas. She compelled me. 'Twas not in words, so much as… images. An impression. An order.” Her thin smile was without humor. “She has always been _controlling_.”

“What was the message, then?”

“She compelled me to seek out the foci. A… map within my head. And then, nothing but whispers. But they became quieter. Unfocused, as if behind a veil.”

“The geas was lifted?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately not. The order was still there, but there was no more purpose behind the whispers. As if Mythal had been silenced, and the message she sent was perhaps a kind of… final command.”

“A dead man’s switch,” Mara muttered.

“Precisely,” said Morrigan. “Yet I had no choice but to follow her orders. I could not sleep or eat until I had fulfilled my duty.” She spat out the word, bitter on her lips. “I found the location where the orb was kept a few days later— a small shrine in the Brecilian forests, overgrown and untouched for centuries beyond counting. Had she not given me the ritual for entering, it would have surely been lost forever.”

“Another foci, then? Mythal’s foci?”

“The very same. Not unlike the artifact that gave you power over the rifts.” Morrigan’s expression turned rueful. “I admit it is beyond my power to wield.”

“And what about Kieran?”

Morrigan’s hands tightened around her blankets. Mara remembered how she’d clutched Kieran to her in the eluvian, determined to save him at all costs. “I could not endanger him. He is with his father, in Denerim. Well hidden.” A wry, humorless smile. "It has always been my priority to protect him, particularly from myself. And with the geas..." Her expression darkened. "It is more important than ever."

Mara nodded slowly. “So, why the midnight entrance? Why come to Skyhold?”

Morrigan sighed. “When I took the orb, I fulfilled Mythal’s duty, but it was far from the end. I began having dark dreams. A great wolf, with eyes like a spider, hunting me in the Fade. Not merely in the dream, but hunting my true location, in the physical realm. I am a mage of no small talent, Inquisitor, and I am certain that these were no mere fabrications of my mind, but… invasions of a powerful _somniari_."

“‘The wolf is awake,’” Mara recited, a chill settling in her chest.

“Just so.” Morrigan’s yellow eyes were eerie, now, the orange of the setting sun flashing against her irises. “Godlike beings walk Thedas alongside us. I need not explain that to _you_ , of all people. This mundane world we pass through is built upon ancient mysteries beyond even we to perceive. Would it be so difficult to believe that another of your pantheon walks among us?”

“Dread Wolf,” she breathed, speaking aloud the name that had been on the tip of her tongue since the moment she awoke.

"Yes," said Morrigan. “I could not sleep, lest my location be discovered in the Fade. I became…unreasonable. I am glad Kieran did not see it.” She stared down at her hands. “I traveled through your Eluvian, and though that likely saved my life, the crossroads were dark and full of eyes. And the red lyrium infects every corridor. I cannot return that way.”

She was silent for a moment, weighing her words. “Why Skyhold? Many reasons come to mind. You are the only living mortal to handle a foci, and are a mage of considerable merit. There are old wards here, difficult to penetrate, even for a creature powerful as Corypheus. Perhaps they will buy me time. And,” she said with a humorless smile, “it may surprise you, but friends are not something I have in abundance.” Mara thought to argue— what of Celene, what of her contacts in the Orlesian court? But then she remembered the cold woman Morrigan had been at the Winter Palace, and supposed that no, she perhaps hadn’t made many friends. And Kieran safely stowed away with the King, and the Hero of Fereldan long gone missing...

Mara found that she’d wrapped her arms around herself, tight with anxiety. She forced herself to relax, muscle by muscle. “This is a lot to take in, Morrigan.”

“There is one other thing,” Morrigan said, meeting her eyes. “If I am being pursued for the power of the foci, we must accept the possibility that you, too, are a target.”

“Me?” Mara startled and then remembered. She looked down at the Anchor, the scar in her palm always faintly aglow in sickly green. “Ah. I suppose I would be.”

“What of the other elf in your party?” Morrigan asked, and for a wild moment Mara thought she meant _Sera_. “Solas, was it? Is he here?"

“No.”

She refused to have any reaction to that name, though she had not heard it spoken aloud in some time. The kindness of her friends, she supposed— or perhaps they merely did not think of him often.

What luxury.

Morrigan’s eyes darted away. “A shame. I had hoped he might have some hypothesis as to severing the geas. But no matter.”

She looked down at Morrigan and felt a kinship with this woman who was touched by the power of a god. "Morrigan... your mother wanted you to find this foci. But do _you_ want it?"

Morrigan blinked. "Do I _want_ it? What a peculiar question. What I  _want_  became inconsequential the moment I drank from the Well. Do not pity me, Inquisitor. I knew the risk I was taking."

Mara pinched her brow, another headache coming on. “If what you say is true, then there may be a god — or _ancient godlike being_ , whatever you like— at our door at any moment. An _unhappy_ one.”

“It is a possibility,” Morrigan admitted. “Though I believe Skyhold is even better fortified than it may appear.”

“You said that,” Mara said, “And there _are_ powerful wards here. But I’m not going to put my people at risk over this. If you and I are targets, we won’t stay here.”

Morrigan frowned. “That is a mistake, Inquisitor."

Mara shook her head. “The people here are under my protection. End of discussion.”

“You protect them, and in return, they protect you. ’Tis what armies are for, is it not?”

Mara stood up, chair scraping back on the stone floor. “Let me make this perfectly clear. Enough of the Inquisition’s people have died standing between me and an angry god. I’m willing to help you, but I won’t put my own people at risk for it.” She had done that enough already. How many had flocked to her banner, and how many of them had died on her behalf?

Morrigan scoffed. “And what then? We will sit in the woods and wait for him to find us?”

Mara clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “This is all assuming I buy your story at all. You’re being _awfully_ forthcoming.”

Morrigan frowned. “Believe, then, that if I had any choice, I would not have stepped foot in Skyhold again. I have little interest in your Chantry and its Inquisition.”

“ _My_ Chantry?” Mara couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s rich.”

“The Herald of Andraste, dear friend of both the Divine and Lady Seeker, leader of an army of true believers— nay, I cannot imagine how I came to such a conclusion.”

Mara bristled, heat rising to her cheeks. “Call us whatever you like— believe me, I’ve heard it all and worse— but the fact is that the world has very recently gone to hell and no one else can look beyond their own noses to give a damn. I can risk myself, now that the rifts are closed, but I can't risk our organization. Not now."

“Perhaps you are correct." A shadow passed over Morrigan’s face, and for a moment she was looking somewhere far away. “You remind me of someone. Another fool woman who would cut off her own head if it would do the world some good.” She sighed. “If you truly will not remain at Skyhold, there are... other avenues we might consider. Avenues that may hold answers."

Mara let out a long breath. “Such as?”

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” said Cullen.

“I… have to agree with the Commander, Inquisitor,” said Josephine.

Bull stayed silent, arms folded.

Mara frowned. “I grant you the plan isn't perfect, but this is an extraordinary situation.”

“Assuming this so-called _situation_ is even real,” Cullen said. “Do you truly trust _Morrigan_ , of all people? She’s misled us before, for her own gain.”

“Her motives weren’t entirely selfless, but she did lead us right to Corypheus,” said Mara. “And fought him with a dragon. That must count for something. Plus, she doesn’t even want to leave Skyhold— that was my decision.”

“She was also Empress Celene’s occult advisor,” Josephine said. “And while her ties to the rest of the court are... not strong, it’s possible this is an attempt to weaken our position. Celene is grateful for her throne, of course, but _no_ leader is comfortable with the amount of power we wield.”

“Plus, her kid is the bastard son of the King of Fereldan,” Bull pointed out.

“Morrigan doesn’t strike me as having the social skills to cut it as a spy, Orlesian or Fereldan,” Mara said, frowning.

“And yet she rose to become the advisor of an Empress quite quickly, for a Fereldan apostate of ostensibly common birth.” Josephine tapped her quill against the sheaf of papers in her hand. “Quickly enough that there were… illicit rumors that her influence was sinister."

Bull shook his head. “From what I hear, Morrigan was more of a lackey than an influencer… or, at least, her interest isn’t in playing the Game. She’s made a lot of enemies among the nobility."

“For someone not interested in the Game, she’s played it very well,” said Josephine.

“If you count ‘setting barons on fire,’ as ‘playing it well,' sure,” said Bull.

“ _That_ would depend on which baron,” Josephine said, tapping her pen with a wry smile.

Cullen waved a hand. “All of which is beside the point. Orlais is still unstable— Gaspard’s execution left a lot of angry chevaliers leaderless, and bands of them roam all over the Dales, razing and robbing. They hate the Inquisition. And elves. For you to travel through the Dales without an army is tantamount to suicide.”

Mara crossed her arms. “I’ve killed a fair few dragons, Cullen,” she said. Bull covered a wide grin. “I think I’ll be fine.”

Josephine stepped in. “I believe what the Commander means is that if the Inquisitor is heard to be fighting dissidents in the Dales, it could be… messy. To say the least.”

“Why assume I’ll fight anyone?” She frowned at their pointed silence. “Fine, don’t answer that. What I mean is, I do know how to travel quietly, when I don’t have a hundred-man entourage. I _am_ Dalish.”

“Another complication,” Josephine pointed out, not unkindly. “Our Dalish Inquisitor, paying visit to the elven Marquise of the Dales… it may appear a very political move, by some.”

“Everything I do ‘appears political’ these days,” Mara muttered. Would it be so bad for the Inquisition to be vocal in its support of the first elven Orlesian noble? They had been instrumental in raising her up, after all.

She shook her head. “Without Inquisition heraldry, Morrigan and I will look like your average travelers." Cullen gave her a _very_ skeptical look, which she pointedly ignored. "And without —” her hesitation was, hopefully, imperceptible, “— my vallaslin, I’m even more anonymous.” Her hands went to her hips. “If you want me to dye my hair and wear rags, I will. But let’s not pretend I didn’t spend nearly three years as Inquisitor trudging through the countryside with nothing but a staff and a bag of herbs. And that was when our enemies were more formidable than prissy lordlings with big shields.”

“That is true,” said Josephine, hesitantly. “Your role has become more diplomatic in nature as of late, and I forget that there was a time when Skyhold saw you but once a fortnight.” Her gaze turned distant. “The trade negotiations are all but signed, and after that our concerns will be largely logistical— troops and builders to Lothering, food shipments through the Frostbacks…” she trailed off, tapping her pen again, lost in thought.

Bull eyed Mara, nodding. “Stay in contact— daily updates, if you can. I’ll give you directions to some of our safehouses along the road— their ravens won’t be compromised.”

Cullen sighed, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I still don’t trust the witch,” he said. “At least bring someone else with you, so I can sleep at night.”

Mara allowed herself a grin. “You're in luck. Cole’s already agreed to come.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral road trip! This is a great plan that couldn't possibly go wrong!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for your comments and kudos! The story is gearing up now. Excited to get into Masked Empire stuff, and some familiar faces will be showing up veeery soon. I'm really hoping the new DLC doesn't force me to retcon a bunch of stuff... and hopefully I can finish before the hypothetical-but-definitely-happening Wolf Hunt DLC makes all of this AU. I plan on updating every Friday/Saturday from now on, so stay tuned.


	4. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halamshiral road trip commences. Things get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's some gruesome violence in this chapter.

“You _did_ say I needed a vacation,” Mara said, saddling up her horse.

Bull sighed. “Yeah. Meaning a lake house, maybe. Or a petting zoo.”

“I’m sure the marquise will have a menagerie. What’s an Orlesian chateau without a menagerie?” She’d hated the one at the Winter Palace— animals had no business being locked up like that. Especially the halla. Josephine had to restrain her from starting an international incident.

“You’re going to give Cullen an ulcer, y’know. Another one.”

Mara finished the knots on her saddlebags and turned to him. “On the bright side, lurking through the countryside means I’ll get a lot of fresh air.”

Bull ignored her and pitched his voice low. “I’m with you that the witch isn’t a spy. But she’s also not telling the whole truth.”

“I’m not a fool, Bull.”

“No, listen.” He huffed. “Morrigan’s pretty eager to get to Briala— but my people tell me the marquise hasn’t been exactly sitting pretty since getting her title. She’s up to something, keeping quiet about it. Mages disappearing, expeditions into the Graves— and she’s amassed some serious amounts of lyrium— Varric gave us the tip on that one, by the way. Whatever she’s got, it scared Celene and Gaspard enough to give her a seat at the peace talks.”

“Interesting. I thought Celene was the one more interested in magic?”

“There’s more to Briala than the ambassador we saw at the Winter Palace,” said Bull. “She’s a complicated woman. Not to mention the whole ‘sleeping with the Empress’ thing.”

“No awkwardness there, I’m sure,” she said, remembering their stilted reunion at the Winter Palace.

Cole sat high upon his mare, a pretty white thing she’d picked out for him that was as gentle as a breeze. He looked monumentally uncomfortable.

“She should be riding me,” he said, staring down at Mara with bright eyes. Bull smothered a snort. “It’s not fair. She’ll get tired.”

“Don’t you think she’d rather be out in the open air than in that musty stable?” Mara reasoned. “And you hardly weigh a thing.”

Cole hummed, stroking the mare’s neck. “Yes,” he said, “That’s right. She wants the sun on her back and grass under her feet. The stallions give her funny looks.”

Mara coughed. “We won’t run her ragged, Cole, don’t worry.”

“But you do need to make good time,” Bull interjected. “That whole ‘ancient elven god’ on your trail, and everything.” He pitched his voice low— as far as most of Skyhold knew, Mara was headed off on a routine troop inspection.

Mara didn’t notice Morrigan until the woman was already at her shoulder. Without her typical draping shirts, feathers, and artfully messy bun, she looked almost ordinary.

“We should leave, Inquisitor,” she said, eyes a little wild. “The sun is climbing, and we must be at the first safehouse by nightfall.”

“Right,” said Mara. She signaled to the gatekeeper and turned to Bull. “Expect a raven by morning.”

He nodded. “Good luck, Boss. Stay safe out there.”

They proceeded through the gates without fanfare. Mara was sad to leave her hart behind, but he would be far too conspicuous. The sturdy gelding she commanded now was nondescript in every way— he could have been any one of a thousand Fereldan workhorses.

As they wound down the steep and snowy crags of the Frostbacks, Mara breathed in the cool air in gulps, tension draining out of her. That should have been odd, she supposed— they were, after all, on a mission that would surely be dangerous— but the wide expanse of nature below them made her heart sing.

And besides— she was in this journey for more than the fear of danger. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Morrigan about her reasons for agreeing to the plan— certainly, she did not want to put her people in danger, and leaving everything else aside that would be reason enough. But there was another side to it that few would understand.

All of her doubts about the Creators, and the universe throws Fen’Harel on her doorstep. This could be her chance to get some real answers, not hints and half-truths…

“How far do you trust your spymaster, Inquisitor?” Morrigan’s voice cut through her musings.

“With my life,” she answered, honestly. After all, it had come to that, more than once.

Morrigan hummed and fell silent. Mara soon learned that no person or creature was free from Morrigan’s paranoia, and did not take it too seriously— the elderly merchants could be spies, the children playing in the mud could be paid off cheaply, the farmer two fields away could have a spyglass— and on, and on.

Was this what being an Orlesian courtier did to someone, or was it the whole being raised by a vengeful goddess thing? Probably both, she decided.

They passed through Orlais like a trio of ghosts, easily avoiding anyone who might question their presence. Aside from her paranoid remarks, Morrigan stayed quiet. Cole whistled— a trick Varric taught him, no doubt— mimicking birdsong and the high-pitched chatter of small forest creatures.

After a few attempts at conversation that were met with terse one-word answers by Morrigan, Mara lapsed into a meditative silence, trying to focus on the beauty of the plains and forests instead of the anxiety behind their purpose, all the while Mythal’s foci sat in an unassuming bag at her hip.

If the Dread Wolf were to overtake them, at least they’d die on a nice summer’s day.

Evening found them at the first safehouse, a simple roadside inn run by simple folk who happened to be paid handsomely by her spymaster. She flashed the innkeeper the Inquisition crest in her pocket, and, wordlessly, they were whisked off to dinner, fresh rooms, and uncompromised ravens.

"Have you written to Kieran?" She ventured to Morrigan, when they were alone with bowls of hearty lamb stew.

Morrigan shook her head, eyes fixed on her spoon. “No. That is a risk I cannot take.”

“Do you worry for him? With his… relationship to the king?” She knew it was a stupid question the moment it left her lips.

"I would be a fool not to," Morrison said, shrugging tense shoulders. "His father is a good man, however, and can, despite appearances, keep a secret. He is one of the very few I would trust with this.”

Lavellan thought back to missives from King Alistair, how his oddly casual manners masked hidden meaning and motive. Not a man perhaps born to courtly arts, but one who could twist them to his own purposes. Not a fool, though he might wish the world to see him so at times. She murmured agreement.

"And I fear our enemy more than I fear the wagging tongues at court." Morrigan didn't invite further discussion— Lavellan suspected she was not so sure of her choice as she appeared.

“If you like, I can send people to—”

Morrigan cut her off with a gesture. “Certainly not. The fewer who know of his whereabouts, the better.”

Mara nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

Cole sat across from them, picking at stew he wouldn’t eat. “His smile is strong, brave, but he feels so fragile in your arms. A little bird, fledgeling, flying away. Your nest can’t hold him forever.”

Morrigan stared at him. “Fascinating,” she said at last, with affected mildness. “Do you know the extent of his abilities?”

“Er, I’m not sure, honestly,” Mara said, a little irritated that she talked about Cole as if he weren’t there. “Do I, Cole?”

Cole looked between them with wide eyes. “I’m here to help.” When she blinked, he was gone.

Morrigan considered where he had just been sitting for a moment, head tilted to one side. “A spirit of compassion. And yet you treat him as any other boy.”

“Not really,” she said, frowning into her stew. “He’s a spirit, not a human, but he’s still a person. And I care for him as much as any friend, beyond his nature as a spirit.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that means I misunderstand him, fundamentally. Or I’m a hypocrite. But it’s his decision, what he decides to be.”

“He could become a powerful tool,” she said, “beyond his skill with a blade.”

She scoffed. “Bind a spirit of compassion as a spy? How much do you know about spirits, Morrigan?” She frowned at the raven-haired witch. “He helps us willingly, on his terms, or not at all.”

Morrigan shrugged lightly. “As you wish, Inquisitor. ‘Tis no concern of mine.”

Mara glanced around, assuring herself they were alone. “Have you… felt anything, on the road? Are we being tracked?”

Morrigan shook her head. “Not even a cold breeze. I admit I expected more impediments. The journey to Skyhold was… difficult. I wonder…” she stared at Mara’s hand— at the Anchor— and hummed.

“Do share,” Mara said.

“Have you wondered, Inquisitor? Which god’s power sits in your hand?”

Mara frowned. “Of course.” At the time, she had accepted that the orb Corypheus carried was an artifact of the ancient elves, and hadn’t asked for more. Later, when she’d met Flemeth, she’d had to wonder. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s not Mythal’s, clearly.”

The rest of them were locked away.

The rest of them, save one.

But that couldn’t be.

“Your Anchor shares certain magical similarities with the ancient protections of Skyhold,” Morrigan said, not noticing her sudden stillness. Perhaps it is merely that the Veil is thin both at Skyhold and in your palm. Or, there is some deeper reason. Being near your Anchor is what, perhaps, shields us from harm.”

“Well, then, I’m glad it’s good for something besides rifts,” she said, sliding her hand under the table, thoughts distant. Could the orb truly have been Fen’Harel’s? The thought chilled her to the bone. What did that mean, then, that it was broken? Why would he hunt Morrigan for Mythal’s power, when his own was sitting in Mara’s palm?

The other women looked at her with an odd expression for a moment, but then merely sighed. “I suppose the true test will be tonight’s dreams.”

But that night brought them no dreams, unpleasant or otherwise. Mara was unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the lack of danger made Morrigan only more paranoid. She muttered to herself as they steered toward Halamshiral, shooting dark looks to Lavellan and Cole in turn.

Mara worried for her, though the witch would no doubt reject her concern.

Cole was better company. He was unaffected by the humid summer heat, sheltered from the sun by his wide-brimmed hat. Mara never thought she’d envy that hat, but as her ears burned and sweat trickled down her back, she couldn’t help herself.

“The sun doesn’t rise or set,” Cole pointed out, staring up into the sky. “It orchestrates the heavens, spinning, like a marble. We are the ones who move. Isn’t it strange, that no one notices?”

“Whatever it’s doing, it’s hot as all hell,” she said, and paused, considering him. “What do you think of all this, Cole? The Dread Wolf, Morrigan— all of it.”

He twisted in his saddle and coughed nervously. “She’s scared because nothing is frightening. Isn’t that odd? Can I help her by being more scary, do you think?”

Mara covered a smile. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Cole. She’s just on edge. Like the anticipation before a battle, when everything’s still.” She paused, realizing he hadn’t answered the question. “And the rest of it? What do you think of our mission?”

There was that odd nervousness again. “I… forget.”

“You… forget why we’re here?” Cole could seem a little scattered to the uninitiated, but he was hardly forgetful.

He shook his head, eyes narrowing a little in frustration. “There’s a hole where it should be. He took it out, and didn’t put anything back. Something waas there, mirrored, a thousand reflections of a thousand years. I wasn’t going to tell. _What wasn’t I going to tell?_ ”

Mara reeled in her curiosity, guilty at the despairing look on his face. She hadn’t seen him so upset in a long time. “You don’t need to know, Cole,” she said, leaning over to grasp his shoulder. “I just wanted to check in, make sure you’re feeling all right.”

He shifted in his saddle, now staring down at his mare. “She’s thirsty. Can we stop?”

They watered the horses in a nearby stream, half-hidden in an oasis of tall willows. They’d kept to the treeline for this leg of the journey, trying to avoid the wide-open fields and roads that would get them spotted from miles away. The lands around Halamshiral were still contested, and she hoped to avoid running into bandits or angry ex-chevaliers.

Morrigan splashed herself a ways downstream, relief plain on her face. Mara shucked off her leathers gratefully, lowering her fet into the cool water with a sigh. Weeks of relative inactivity at Skyhold meant that even a day’s ride left her sore and achy. She splashed her face and neck and watched the water ripple around her legs, throwing the reflection of the trees above into chaos.

A sudden movement in the reflection caught her eye, and she glanced up.

A blade was at her throat, steel glinting in the dappled sunlight.

The tip pierced the skin of her jugular, little more than a sting, and she felt a single drop of blood slide down her neck. Only through intense force of will did she not jump in surprise and slice her own throat.

For a half-second she saw the breastplate and thought, _chevalier_ , but no, it was a an elf at the other end of the sword, staring down at her with cold eyes. And he had vallaslin. A Dalish bandit? Some clans made their living that way, sheer desperation winning out over honor.

But this elf didn’t look desperate. His face was impassive, almost imperious. Three more emerged from behind the trees, clad in the same silver, marked with the same vallaslin. Falon’Din. Odd choice for warriors. They moved silently, despite their heavy armor— ah, but there were the sound damping charms at their waists. She had never seen a clan outfitted so finely. Stolen, then? No— the armor fit too well for that.

What fools they had been, to not set up wards.

“We mean no harm,” she said, raising her hands in supplication. Her knives were with her armor, ten paces away, so perhaps they’d fall for it. They couldn’t know she was a mage.

The elf stared down at her, his eyes unreadable and somehow familiar. He might not have even understood her. His blade didn’t budge.

But her false surrender was unnecessary— they hadn’t seen Cole. A dagger cut clean through the neck of the elf with the sword. He fell, twitching and grasping at his neck, blood gurgling from his throat as he died. Cole nodded to her, wiped his blade, and vanished back into the shadows.

She watched the elf as he died, as his blue eyes went cloudy and rolled back, something pulling in her chest. With his helm askew, he looked almost young, despite his bare head. In a flash she understood the familiarity she had felt a moment before.

He could have been twin to the sentinels at the Temple of Mythal. Could have even been brother to—

Downstream, Morrigan cried out a single word, and an explosion of ice clouds erupted, sending a flurry of sharp hail in all directions. The elves charging her staggered, covering their eyes, and never saw the lightning that arced to their armor, frying them in their boots.

Three more nearly identical elves advanced on Mara, waving their blades in what they probably thought was an intimidating manner. Mara suppressed an adrenaline-fueled grin and stepped out of the water.

She didn’t relish killing. But she loved a good fight.

She let them inch closer— just a few more feet— and in one smooth motion snapped her wrist up, slid the hilt from where it hid in her sleeve, and summoned a blade of green fire to her fingertips. It materialized in an arc of light, cleanly slicing off the sword arm of her nearest attacker. He screamed and fell backwards, sword clanging away with the limb. No blood— the spirit blade cauterized the wound as soon as it was cut.

She spun back, slicing the second attacker’s head cleanly off on the backstroke before he had a chance to react. These elves seemed out of practice. No matter— two down, one to go.

Mara circled the remaining elf, neither making the first move for several long moments. The elf sneered at her, and Mara realized that this elf was a woman.

With a snarl she lunged at Mara with her two-handed broadsword. Mara managed to parry, but the blow was strong and she staggered back, rolling away and forwards to avoid the follow-up thrust, but barely. As the other elf recovered, Mara turned the energy from her roll to a upward thrust to her attacker’s side, her blade singing as it met steel plate. With a yell the elf hooked her blade and they came crashing together, hilt to hilt, their cross-guards locked.

The elf’s muscles strained, and Mara could feel in an instant that in a contest of pure strength, she would lose. She was, after all, no warrior. She gritted her teeth, pushing back as hard as she could, all while knowing it wasn’t enough.

“ _Din’an, asha’fen_ ,” snarled the elven woman, a feral grin on her face.

Unfortunately for the elf, Mara’s sword was made of energy and heat, not mere steel. As they pressed together, it slowly but surely was slicing through the other elf’s blade, weakening it. In a few moments, it would shatter—

—Or it would have.

Her head swam with sudden nausea and she staggered with a cry, barely able to keep her arms up, her limbs wracked with inexplicable tremors.

Her blade flickered once, twice— and died.

Mara stared at the now-empty hilt in horror and pushed back with a yell, managing to stumble the other elf enough to scurry back a few feet— a move that would buy her mere seconds before she was utterly defenseless. She pulled desperately on the Veil, but it was flimsy as a spiderweb in her grasp.

Her magic was just _gone_ , as if it had never been. Even the Anchor sputtered, useless, in her palm.

The elf stood over her with a wide grin. She raised her blade with one hand. The other hand reached into her armor, palming something small hidden inside. She raised it high alongside the blade.

It was an orb.

A rush of power, and the elf woman’s head exploded in a shower of flame and viscera, splattering Mara across the face with charred flesh and smoking blood. Morrigan stood panting behind where the elf lay crumpled, disgust plain on her features. The orb had rolled away and vanished somewhere in the tall grass beside the stream.

Cole materialized beside her, blades dripping. “More coming through the trees,” he said, low and urgent, and Mara could hear the rustle of leaves in the near distance. Too close and too many. They would be surrounded inside of a minute.

Mara retched, the bizarre, empty feeling in her chest unbearable, and touched her throat where the blade had punctured her.

So they _had_ known she was a mage.

“Magebane,” she coughed out. “Blade must have been coated.”

“Then we must make haste.” Morrigan took Mara by the elbow and rushed her to the horses, who brayed and bucked in fear. Thank the Gods they had thought to tie them.

Morrigan hoisted her up on the sturdy workhorse— not her first choice for a retreat, but she’d take it.

Morrigan shook her arm and shoved the reins into her hands. “Do not fall, Inquisitor,” she commanded, emphasizing each word with a shake. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

Unable to trust her voice, Mara gave her a thumbs-up, and Morrigan made a particularly Cassandra-ish sound before slapping the horse’s flank, sending him sprinting. She heard Morrigan and Cole’s mounts erupt into gallops seconds later.

Behind them, the forest screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din’an, asha’fen: Die, wolf bitch (um, possibly. My elven is cribbed from a wiki.)
> 
> A little note about Cole in this story-- I was never super pleased with how the Inquisitor made the choice between spirit/human *for* him. In this story, he was nudged towards being a spirit-hood but, well, things are more complicated than a simple dichotomy with him.
> 
> Next up: Halamshiral! Elves! A certain someone!


	5. Closing In

They rode hard for miles. Mara stayed awake, just barely, clutching one hand to the reins and another to her chest— a fruitless attempt to ease the hole her magic had left behind.

Adrenaline and fear kept their pace quick, though they’d outrun the elves quickly. They’d slowed somewhat as the day went on, at Cole’s insistence for the horses’ comfort, but sunset found them half a day ahead of schedule.

Morrigan brought them to a halt a mile from the Imperial Highway, the lights of Halamshiral twinkling in the distance. The monumental Winter Palace hovered to the northeast, a looming shape on a hill above the city, dark and shuttered for the summer season. The last time she’d come this way, she’d been wreathed in the finery of the Inquisition, a hundred soldiers in her entourage.

“We need to clean ourselves before we approach the gates,” Morrigan said, helping Mara from her horse. “Arriving soaked in elf blood may earn us friends in some Orlesian cities, but not Halamshiral.”

“Very funny,” Mara slid off her horse and tried to ignore the way her stomach lurched. “Creators," she cursed. "I’ve been smited by templars before, and it was nothing like this.”

“And from only a prick. A particularly powerful poison indeed,” Morrigan said, leading her into the small pond they’d stopped beside.

“They knew I was a mage. And they had a foci, Morrigan.”

Morrigan shook her head, brows drawn. “Those were no ordinary elves.”

“I’d like to meet an ordinary elf, sometime. They seem to be a rarity, dont you think?” She paused, remembering the dead elf warrior who had seemed so familiar. “Didn’t you think—”

Morrigan cut her off. “—The sentinels. Yes.” There was something calculating in her expression. “And all marked by Falon’Din. Curious, indeed.”

Cole hovered by the horses, soothing his mare with lumps of sugar. “They were so certain of their purpose. Their anger was new, but their pain was so old,” he whispered, looking up at Mara. “You almost lost your head.”

She snorted. “Literally, or metaphorically?”

“Yes,” he said.

Mara stripped down to her small-clothes and eased herself into the second body of water of the day, hoping that this time they wouldn’t be ambushed by enraged elvhen. They were lucky—the only interlopers were dragonflies and frogs. Her clothes were a hopeless case, even with magic. The sun had baked in the blood, sweat and dirt. She shuddered to think what she smelled like.

She looked when she re-dressed, dismayed. She’d had to leave her armor behind in the ambush, and now she had to face Briala in what amounted to filthy rags. Not exactly how she wanted to make a good second impression.

The Inquisition hadn’t had much contact with Briala after the events of the Winter Palace— Mara had sent her personal correspondence, on a few occasions, and Briala’s responses had been polite and terse. Mara at the time had chalked it up to the busy schedule of a newly-made marquise. Now, at the gates of Thedas’ singular elven-ruled city, she wondered if she should have tried harder.

To be fair, she’d been a little distracted by the imminent destruction of the world.

Within an hour they were at the gates of the city. It was manned by elven guards, who waved them in without a second glance, utterly unaware of the compassion spirit, Inquisitor, and occult advisor to the Empress under their noses.

She hadn’t gotten to see much of Halamshiral itself at the peace talks, despite her curiosity to see the once-great seat of her people’s kingdom. The Winter Palace was set apart from the city, a shining jewel that few got to see up close. And much of Halamshiral had been in ruins, then, wreckage from the civil war.

What she saw astonished her. Unlike Val Royeaux, where the only elves she saw were low servants, scuttling mostly unseen, here she saw elven merchants, rich as their human counterparts, and elven artisans. Elven blacksmiths were in the high markets, in equal placements with humans and dwarves. It was astounding.

And if she heard muttered complaints about the newly raised elves, they were just that— muttered. Somehow, complaining about elves had turned into something humans did under their breath. She couldn’t help but smile. Even at the Winter Palace, she’d been called rabbit like it was nothing. Here, it seemed that kind of language was not spoken in polite company. In public, at least.

The landscape of the city had changed, too, the walls that had once encircled the slums torn down. Briala’s estate stood proudly at the high point of the city, a new construction made in a unique style, halfway between Orlesian and Elven. Humans still dominated the richest quarters, but the fact that even a handful of elves lived there had been unimaginable even a year before.

Briala was doing good work. Mara hoped it could last.

She was so in awe that she nearly missed Cole’s anxiety.

“What wasn’t I supposed to remember?” He muttered, wide eyes staring through her. “I want to help, but it’s gone, but it’s here. Can’t you feel it?”

Mara put a gentle hand on his arm, and could feel him trembling . “Cole, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head. There was sweat on his brow— sweat that hadn’t been there during the long ride in the sun, nor duing their fight in the forest. Cole, always a few degrees cooler than the rest of them, wasn’t the sweating type. “Forget,” he muttered, “It wasn’t right. The pain bigger but I can’t help—”

She blinked, and he was gone.

“Cole?” She called out, earning a few odd looks from passerby for talking to herself. “Well, shit.”

“Does he do that often?” Morrigan asked, her tone arch.

“He has his reasons,” said Mara, uneasy.

She hadn’t seen Cole so upset in a long time. Perhaps it had been wrong to take him on this mission, when he’d established a careful equilibrium at Skyhold. Truth be told, Solas’ departure had hit him hard. He had understood Cole in a way that even Mara could not, no matter how she tried.

“He’ll be back,” she said, sounding more assured than she felt.

“I hope you are correct,” said Morrigan. She paused mid-step and gazed up at Briala’s manor. “Not so long ago, this city burned on Celene’s order. It does not surprise me that a spirit of compassion would be overwhelmed here. This city is built upon centuries of suffering.”

Morrigan’s attempts at elven expertise had irritated her, once, but now it was merely a relief to speak with someone who knew her people’s history. Few at Skyhold cared enough to learn.

“We were exiled here, and then even our exile was taken from us,” she said. Even among the new construction and pretty painted houses of the noble quarter, crumbled walls and fallen pillars from the ancient city still lingered, lonely, built for purposes long forgotten.

“A sad story, Halamshiral,” said Morrigan. “But then, most stories of the elves are so.”

“Maybe not always,” Mara said, looking up at the flickering candlelight and shifting shadows in the high, dark windows above them.

 

* * *

 

"May I present Inquisitor Lavellan, Lady of Skyhold and Grand Protector of the Empire. She is accompanied by Lady Morrigan, from the court of Val Royeaux.” The ‘grand protector of the empire’ title had been Celene’s addition following her thwarted assassination at the Winter Palace. Orlesians always insisted on it, to Mara’s mortification. The elven servant who’d introduced them bowed and retreated, closing the door behind her.

Briala was unmasked and dressed simply, for an Orlesian noble, her only ornament a delicate jeweled hairpiece tucked into the base of her dark braid. She stood from her desk when they entered, not betraying any surprise at their arrival, though her eyes did linger on Mara’s face for a moment, no doubt noting her lack of vallaslin. Mara bowed, feeling a private swell of pride at having played a part in raising up a fellow elf.

“Inquisitor Lavellan. A pleasure to see you again.” Briala bowed back, paying her due deference and not a single inch more.

Well. Even Mara, who had won her first bout in the Game almost entirely thanks to the combined might of Josie, Leliana, and Vivienne, could see it for the veiled insult it was. So much for easy allies.

She was suddenly very aware of how she must look— bedraggled, filthy, exhausted. The utter and complete opposite of Briala’s cool elegance. She tried to put on her best Inquisitor face.

Mara motioned to Morrigan. "Morrigan was kind enough to accompany me. I trust you’re acquainted?"

"Of course," Briala said, nodding at Morrigan's bow as they made the appropriate courtesies at each other, and it struck Mara that she had no conception of their relationship. Celene and Briala were reconciled, but how much of that was just part of the Game? And how loyal was Morrigan to Celene, in the end?

She saw no hints from either woman. Briala's face was a stone wall of cordiality, but her eyes darted between them, no doubt trying to guess at the reason behind their odd pairing.

“I’m impressed by the vast strides Halamshiral has made since my last visit, my lady,” she said. “You have already done great things for our people.”

Briala eyes were cool and her smile was tight. “I cannot take all the credit, Your Worship.”

"I apologize for our abrupt arrival”, Mara said after an awkward pause. "I hope we haven't inconvenienced you." Her sore back and aching limbs had no patience for this dance of manners— could she go draw a hot bath, already, and save all the bowing and scraping for tomorrow?

Briala eyed her ragged clothes clothes. “Forgive my surprise. The Inquisitor rarely travels with so little fanfare.”

Mara figured that if she couldn’t tell whether something was an insult, it probably was. “We were waylaid on the road,” she said, unsure how much she should give away. “Our attackers’ blades were slicked with magebane.”

Briala frowned. “Not mere bandits, then, we can assume.”

“No,” Mara said, again uncertain of how much to say. But if she were Briala, she’d want to know about bizarre, murderous elves on her lands. “They were elves, believe it or not. Possibly Dalish, but rather too well-armed.”

“Is that so?” Mara couldn’t read her expression— but what else was new? “I hope you will instruct my soldiers as to their whereabouts. We have not heard reports of any such attackers on the roads. Is it common for the Dalish not to recognize their own?”

Mara suppressed a twitch of annoyance. “They had vallaslin, but weren’t from any clan I recognize. But I haven’t been to the Arlathvhen for many years.” Her head swam for a moment and she stopped to steady herself on a chair, her whole body thick with nausea. It wouldn't do to vomit on Briala's fine hardwood floors. “The poison was particularly potent. Excuse me.”

“I see. Shall I send for a draught of lyrium?” said Briala, raising a hand.

Mara shook her head. “That’s not necessary.  A good night’s sleep will be enough.”

She regretted her refusal the moment she said it. She’d thought Briala’s palace would be a safe landing, but was quickly realizing that it was the last place she wanted to be defenseless. She had come prepared to tell Briala everything, from Morrigan to Fen’Harel to the foci to the warriors of Falon’Din, but now she could practically hear Bull in her ear, telling her to keep her guard up.

"Certainly. You are welcomed as our honored guests," Briala said, an odd expression flickering over her face, something too close to smugness for Mara’s taste. "The Inquisition will always find my household to be full of its friends and admirers." She gestured to the shadows behind her.

It seemed introductions were not yet over. At Briala's motion, another figure emerged from the low shadows cast by the candlelight, a figure she had assumed to be another servant.

But it was no servant.

The world seemed to tip on its axis.

Solas stepped forward beside Briala, his pale face a blank mask of politeness. He looked beyond her, as if not even seeing her, as if she were any other courtly visitor come to beg the marquise's favor. His back was ramrod-straight, hands linked behind his back, and he'd shed his ragged furs for a simple yet expensive-looking black ensemble, the fine clothes of a courtier. The ragged cord of bone still hung about his neck, a strange contrast against the smooth silk of his tunic. 

His eyes flicked to hers for a moment. Distantly, beyond the dull roar in her ears, she could tell that those eyes were _angry_.

Briala was watching for her reaction, she knew, and it was only through sheer force of will that the twisting knife in her gut forged of rage and relief came out as merely a frown.

"Inquisitor," Solas said, bowing low, shadows falling over his eyes. "It is good to see you well."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, look who finally showed up!
> 
> Besides you-know-who, I am SO excited about Briala, you guys. I love her. Did you really think making Briala reunite with Celene would be a good idea, Lavellan? Poor Mara-- she's like a sad puppy surrounded by a bunch of pissed-off cats.


	6. Lullaby

"Solas," she said, grateful that her voice did not crack. "You're... here," she finished, lamely.

He did not respond.

"Of course, you are acquainted. Forgive me," Briala said, her surprise bright and false. Mara did not look at her. Her gaze seemed to be locked on Solas, however hard she tried to turn away. The familiar sharp planes of his face, the turn of his neck, the scar above his eye, the tightness in his jaw. "Solas has been so helpful to my household that I forget he has not always been with us.”

Somehow, distantly, she managed to reply. "Has he indeed?"

She had no idea what to say. Words were difficult to form around the hot anger supplanting the shock. Had he been _here_ , this entire time? She’d long ago given up on stumbling across him on the road, in a ruin, in a dream, though for a time she’d seen him in every passing monk, every tall man in a hood, every visitor crossing Skyhold’s bridge with a staff in hand. She had never once expected to find him _here_ , as, what, some kind of _lackey_ to an Orlesian marquise? What was this? Some anger must have shown on her face— she had never been very good at schooling her features.

He still would not meet her eyes.

So be it. Anger was safe—if she could not feel nothing, anger could be her armor. She clutched onto that feeling as her head spun, wrenching her gaze away, forcing it anywhere but him—her boots, Briala, the shadows flickering on the wall.

Morrigan’s voice cut smoothly through the awkward silence. "Apologies, but it has been an arduous journey. I believe some civilized comforts would do us both some good."

"Of course." Briala rang a shrill bell on her desk and a flock of servants came in. "My home is yours. Ask for anything and you shall have it. I do not forget my friends, Inquisitor," she said, meeting Mara’s eyes. Meanings behind meanings behind meanings. “We will speak in the morning.”

Gods, she hated Orlais.

They were whisked off to the guest quarters by servants, all elves, where fresh linens and fine beds awaited them. Mara could feel his eyes on her as they left the drawing room, and felt an odd surge of satisfaction— yes, let him watch her walk away for once— but the swell of righteous indignation was short-lived.

Her quarters were as luxurious as her rooms at Skyhold, though more ornately gilded and with a surplus of florals. She noticed none of it.

A year. For a year she’d wondered. Where was he, what was he doing, was he even still alive? Adrift in an uncertainty that made her angry and despairing in turn, however much she’d buried it in her work.

And yet now, when he was merely a hallway away, she felt further from him than ever. That man in black silks had felt like a stranger. And he had hardly seemed to even see her.

A hallway away. So close, after all this time.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The hateful combination of nerves and rage made her fingers slip lighting the candle on the vanity, and the match slipped out of her hands, scorching a mark on the glossy white surface. She wouldn’t trust her magic, not so soon after the magebane.

She met her eyes in the vanity mirror and winced. It is good to see you well. Hah! If well meant caked in mud and half-dead, stripped of her magic, certainly, she was well. Yes. She had to be well. She could not afford to show weakness in this place, no matter the provocations Briala threw at her.

And wasn’t that unexpected. For someone she had personally helped raise to nobility, Briala did not seem particularly grateful.

A sharp knock at the door startled her out of her thoughts.

She tried to quell the sudden uptick of her pulse, unable to tell if it was from hope or fear. Was it—he wouldn’t, would he?

Another knock, harder this time, and someone hissed, “ _Inquisitor_.”

Ah. Morrigan.

She opened the door and the witch slid in, nearly tip-toeing.

“For you, courtesy of your spirit friend. Apparently you ‘ache behind the veil’.” She tossed Mara a small blue vial of lyrium.

“Right,” Mara said, uncorking the bottle and downing it in one quick motion, the liquid burning down her throat. “Thanks.” The lyrium would make her jittery, but sleep was likely out of the equation regardless. “At least he didn’t run off. Did he say anything?”

Morrigan shrugged. “Nothing I understood. He appeared to be in a hurry.”

“I see.” No doubt he had found Solas by now. She couldn’t begin to guess at what he would say to Cole, if anything. More than even her, he owed Cole an explanation. He had been blindsided by Solas’ sudden departure. Mara did all she could, and she cared for Cole dearly, but Solas had been Cole’s anchor in a world that often made little sense to the spirit.

“So,” Morrigan said, after a long silence, “I presume you did not know he would be here?”

She didn’t need to clarify the ‘he.’ “No,” she said. “Did _you_?”

“Briala keeps her machinations here secret from even Celene.” She paused. “Know that I would have told you, had I known. It was a cruel surprise.” Morrigan idly played with the rings on her fingers, suddenly awkward, as if any display of friendship were deeply embarrassing.

Mara sighed. “I believe you, Morrigan. Do you have any idea what’s going on here? Bull told me there were rumors of Briala studying dark magic, and I remember something about her having a weapon of some kind during the peace talks, but…”

Morrigan's eyebrows raised. “You do not know?”

Mara frowned. “Know what?”

Morrigan’s pleased smirk bordered on pompous. “I see! So the Sister was lax in her duties as your spymaster. Allow _me_ to enlighten you, then. Briala controls a network of eluvians that connects all of Orlais. It is a remarkable thing. Celene was quite pleased to bring it under her command.” She scoffed at Mara’s wide, disbelieving eyes. “You think she welcomed Briala back with open arms and a title for love? How touching.”

Mara thought back to the peace talks, her mind reeling. She’d thought they’d won that round, but clearly, she had been played as hard as Gaspard. “So by reuniting them, I did little more than put a network of eluvians under the control of a human empress. Wonderful.”

She was a fool. A damned fool.

“Do not mistake me, Inquisitor. It was the best result. Orlais could not have survived the civil war, and Gaspard would have aggressed against every border given the chance. And to raise an elf to nobility was not nothing.”

“She even pushed me to install Gaspard as a puppet, and I ignored her. Gods, why didn’t she _tell_ me?”

Morrigan’s gaze was level as she leaned against the door. “You were not a sure ally, I presume.”

“What _surer ally_ did she have? What other leader in Thedas is more disposed toward helping our people?” She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, palms pressed tight to her thighs, and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. The lyrium coursing through her veins did not make it easy.  “I suppose it hardly matters now. She doesn’t seem to like me very much. So much for asking her for help."

“I am not so certain,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms. “Do you recall, in Skyhold, how I told you I came to you through the eluvian there? I felt a malevolent presence in the crossroads that I can only assume was the Dread Wolf."

Mara thought through the implications. “And if the roads between the eluvians are dangerous or corrupted…”

“Then they are worthless as weapons for either Briala or Celene, yes.” She smiled, and it had a hard, dark edge to it. “Take heart, Inquisitor. The dance has only just begun.”

Mara managed a brittle smile. “You realize that’s exactly what scares me, right?”

Morrigan helped her set wards around the perimeter of the room. She was surprisingly tactful when Mara’s still-fluctuating magic burned a rune or snapped a thread of mana. The careful push-and-pull of setting a barrier together helped to calm her down. By the time they finished, her nerves were less raw and her aching head had calmed somewhat.

“Thanks,” Mara said, wiping her brow and sitting back, admiring their work. Mara had always preferred the raw power of a spirit blade or cloud of flame. In contrast, Morrigan’s magic was sly and complex, her glyphs drawn thick with carefully laid traps. Combined, they had made a ward she didn’t think even the Dread Wolf himself could break.

She looked to the small pile of belongings she’d tossed aside earlier, forgotten in her temper. “So. The orb. I’m assuming telling Briala about it is off the table?”

Morrigan pursed her lips. “Yes,” she said, reluctantly, “I think that would be wise, for the time being.” She opened her mouth to say more and then seemed to think better of it, her teeth snapping shut.

“Go on, then,” Mara said, already suspecting what she would say.

“I… merely suggest that we perhaps should not discount the Dreamer in our midst, one with great knowledge of the ancient elves.”

“No,” Mara snapped. “Absolutely not.”

“And why not, beyond your personal feelings on the matter?”

Mara clamped down on the temper that threatened to rise again, dimly aware of the Anchor sparking in her palm. “Solas is not entirely who he appears to be, Morrigan. His true intentions are a mystery to me, and while I can’t hate him for leaving the Inquisition, I also can’t trust him. Not now.” She sighed. “I know he was interested in the foci. That was part of why he left, I think, because Corypheus’ orb was broken. What I don’t know is why he was so interested. And telling him without knowing—that would be a mistake.” It hurt to say it. Solas had been her closest confidant, once, and more besides.

“That is… reasonable, yes. Perhaps he will explain himself.” She rose from the floor, brushing off her breeches.

“Ha! Yeah, and maybe nugs will grow wings,” Mara said, scoffing. No doubt he would have some lie about the Fade to placate her.

Morrigan gave her an odd look and then shook her head, rising and brushing off her breeches. “We shall see. For now, I bid you goodnight.”

Mara slumped back against the bed when the door shut, the sudden quiet resting heavy on her shoulders. She stripped out of her filthy clothes and slipped under the covers, willing her mind not to wander, not to wish for things that could not be.

She settled on the facts. Briala hadn’t trusted her with the eluvians. And, having the chance to think about it for a second, she couldn’t blame her.

Mara Lavellan could be an ally to the elves, but Inquisitor Lavellan was bound by duty and circumstance. The Inquisitor could not play favorites. That truth had been clear, in the argument at the war table days before—the Inquisition could not be seen paying favor to the elves. Too political. Too risky, for too little reward.

But what was the point of being the Inquisitor if she could not help her own people? They tiptoed around Fereldan and Orlais, so careful to not offend or overstep, so much so that they’d become little more than coordinators for reconstruction. Important work, to be sure, but couldn’t she do more?

Mara burrowed underneath the heavy duvet, clenching her eyes shut. She had more immediate problems. Somehow, she had to convince Briala they were on the same side. She had to figure out what to do about Morrigan and Mythal’s orb and the god on their tail. And she had to deal with Solas.

The Anchor sparked in her palm at the mere thought, aching in rhythm with her pulse and illuminating the darkness under the blankets. She closed her eyes and tried to even her breath, trying not to think about the irony of using the meditation techniques he taught her.

As she slipped into a restless, exhausted sleep, she wondered if he would try to find her in the Fade, at last, after all this time.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t Solas who found her.

She wandered into the rotunda. It was quiet and empty, the furniture covered with dusty white sheets, doors rusted off their hinges. The half-light of dawn was dim and cold, and there were no hushed voices from the library above. Yet the frescoes on the wall were as vibrant as ever, despite how long it had been—how long had it been?

The birds in the rookery cried out, agitated, feathers rustling in the darkness high above. She could see the points of lights in their eyes—too many, far too many. The air was thick with the stench of them, thick feathers falling and coating the floor. They screamed louder and louder until all she could do was close her eyes and cover her ears against the sheer force of the sound. But the sound was in her head, too, and she couldn’t block that with her hands.

All at once, the noise stopped.

She opened her eyes, and the rotunda changed. Liquid red lyrium pooled around her, burning her legs. Red crystals broke through the walls and floor, jutting through the frescoes and crumbling the walls. Skyhold shuddered.

A new noise started. A beautiful song, one she’d never heard before and yet knew was from her sweetest dreams. A lullaby she yearned to reach out for, to hold close, to covet.

Dark, soft things fell from above, and it took a moment to realize they were the birds. Hundreds of them fell from the rookery, silent and dead, bodies sizzling when they hit the raw lyrium. But they were too large for ravens, and shaped all wrong.

It wasn’t until one fell at her feet that she realized they were owls.

The sweet song tempered her fear, soothing her like an infant at the breast. As the dead birds piled up and the lyrium rose, embracing her, burning through her skin, all she could do was sing along.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owls? Owls. I have a fondness for creepy dream sequences...
> 
> So. Trespasser. Exciting! Unfortunately, just by nature of what this story is about (Solas and eluvians and elfy shit), this will all be AU come September 8th. But! I know exactly where this story is going and don't plan on changing anything major, whatever happens in canon. I wasn't expecting DLC so soon and was hoping I'd have another month or two to finish this first, but since it's coming out for my birthday I can't be too put out. Onward!
> 
> By the way, I'm over at tumblr too: hallahart.tumblr.com


	7. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakfast of croissants, followed by some egg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT LIVES! Trespasser really threw this story for a loop, but I think I've got it figured out now. It goes without saying that this story is now AU, though certain elements have been incorporated since I was DEAD WRONG about a bunch of stuff that's actually... kind of important? Ahaha. Thank you for still reading, and for your comments! <3

   
  
It was the most awkward breakfast of her life.  
  
She’d found some serviceably practical garments in her quarters, grateful to have been given options beyond corsets and gowns. She kept Mythal’s orb in a satchel by her side, unwilling to leave it alone in even a heavily warded room. The residual nausea from her dream left her picking at toast, while beside her Morrigan powered through a variety of croissants. Briala forewent the pretense of eating and merely stared them down, an untouched cup of coffee cooling in her hands.  
  
She could only be thankful that Solas wasn’t present.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows along the walls, shining against the freshly-polished silver on the table. The room was _frilly_ in a way she didn't expect from Briala, festooned as it was with pastels and florals, but then, nobility had certain appearances to uphold, and Orlesian trends were a matter of life and death. Birdsong from the garden and the bustling sounds of the city below only served to emphasize the silence in the parlor.  
  
Mara cradled her teacup, warming her hands. Deep underneath the anxiety and doubt was a certain level of amusement at the scene the three of them made.  
  
“So,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair, “how’s Celene?”  
  
Briala’s slightly raised eyebrows seemed to say, _you’ll have to do better than that_. “I assume she is well, for I have not heard otherwise.”  
  
“You don’t see much of her?”  
  
Briala shrugged, a dainty lift of her shoulder. She played the role of a noble well, but Mara knew that underneath the jewels and feathers was a deadly, precise fighter. But perhaps those two roles were not so different. “She is in Val Royeaux. It is a long journey to make, in these uncertain times.”  
  
“For most people,” Mara said, sipping her tea.  
  
Briala didn’t show any surprise, but she glanced at Morrigan, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. “Yes. For most people.”  
  
Morrigan ignored them, her focus entirely set on her croissant. She may have spent some time at court, but when it came to manners, it was hard to forget that Morrigan grew up in a swamp. Mara, who grew up in the woods, at least had Josephine to teach her which fork to hold.  
  
Another strained silence followed.  
  
“And what of Solas? How did he come to be in your employ?” She was slowly getting used to saying his name without her voice catching—a verbal tic she knew verged on pathetic. She would be damned if she let Briala use him to walk all over her.  
  
“Solas has been of great help for some months now,” she said, which wasn’t quite an answer. “As no doubt he was to your Inquisition.” She paused for a moment, staring Mara down with her wide, bright eyes. “Let us speak plainly, Inquisitor.”  
  
With a wave of her hand, she banished her servants from the room.  
  
“Funny you say that now,” said Mara, glancing at Morrigan, who had abandoned her croissants at last.  
  
Briala’s smile was polite and humorless. “It is the Game, Inquisitor, and however loathsome it may be, we are its players. And you an especially powerful one. You cannot blame me for attempting to take you off guard. And yet I perceive you have a purpose here beyond mere politics.”  
  
Mara remembered one of Leliana’s lessons—sometimes, claiming to hate the Game was merely another way to play it. Gaspard had been the master of decrying Orlesian politics on one hand and maneuvering like a master on the other.  
  
“Well,” Mara said, leaning forward in her chair, “what do you _perceive_ our purpose is, then?”  
  
Briala looked between them, and Mara realised that Morrigan’s silence was unnerving the marquise. All the better.  
  
“The eluvians,” Briala said. “Morrigan researched them for Celene. That is easy enough to guess. And the elves you met on the road disturb you, as well.”  
  
Mara nodded slowly. “That was the first you’d really heard of them?”  
  
Briala frowned. “Yes, but I can make a guess as to the details. They all had the same vallaslin, I presume?”  
  
That she knew as much tied Mara’s stomach in knots with implication.“Falon’Din,” she said, seeing no reason to not tell her the truth.  
  
“I thought as much.” Briala tapped a finger against her cup. “But it was not Falon’Din’s warriors that steered you to Halamshiral at the outset. The eluvians, then.”  
  
Mara shook her head, glancing at Morrigan. Morrigan’s eluvian remained at Skyhold, carefully concealed. The Inquisition had been loathe to investigate it too much, without either Morrigan or Solas to guide them, and investigating ancient mysteries had been put off for the practical demands of rebuilding Thedas.  
  
“I suspect we share an enemy,” Morrigan said, speaking for the first time that morning. “The crossroads are darkened. An ancient being stalks them, hunting his prey. I have seen him myself—Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf.”  
  
Briala wasn’t Dalish. Perhaps that was why the name Fen’Harel didn’t give her pause. But Morrigan had said Briala could help them with her _wolf problem_...  
  
“I see,” Briala said. “You are mistaken. Our enemies are not the same.”  
  
Morrigan’s lip curled. “Does some _other_ Bringer of Nightmares prowl the Fade, then?”  
  
Mara wondered at the dramatic title. She’d taken it for granted all her life. But she’d been to the Temple of Mythal. She’d seen firsthand the mistranslations, the forgotten history, the gaping holes left by the entropy of time. And she knew, all too closely, that the world created its heroes and villains from the raw materials of ambiguity and doubt.  
  
Briala just looked at her. “I did not say he was not there. I said that he is not my enemy.”  
  
Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “What of your Dalish apostate? Celene claimed he had knowledge that could aid us.”  
  
Briala seemed amused. “So Celene trusted you with that sad story? I wonder at her judgement.”  
  
Mara looked between them, utterly lost. “Care to explain?”  
  
Briala smiled, a nostalgic look in her eye. “A former friend of mine. A mentor, in truth. Felassan. He taught me many things, among them truths of our ancestors that were nearly lost to time. We traveled the pathways between the eluvians together, with Celene, among others.”  
  
“Former friend?”  
  
Briala’s smile disappeared. “He is dead.”  
  
Morrigan, utterly unsympathetic, just looked annoyed. “Dead? Are you certain?”  
  
“Yes.” Her tone did not brook argument.  
  
“All right,” Mara said, slowly, “Sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with our problem?”  
  
Morrigan, bless her, seemed to know what was going on, though she made no move to enlighten Mara. “Your mentor served the Dread Wolf, by all accounts, and now he is dead. This gives you no cause for suspicion?”  
  
Mara thought she understood. So this apostate was who Morrigan wanted to seek out at Briala’s court? If so, it seemed they were at an impasse, unless this Felassan passed on his knowledge to Briala. And she was not convinced Briala would tell them anything truly substantial.  
  
“Your suspicion is misplaced.” Briala tilted her head, unfazed, though she looked now at Mara, not Morrigan. “Perhaps you should ask Solas. He knew Felassan once, or so he claims.”  
  
Mara clenched her jaw. “Perhaps I should.” She shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the conversation. “You don’t fear the Dread Wolf. Fine. But _something_ is corrupting the eluvians. Hard to run a secret spy network without your magical trump card, I would think, and I can't imagine Celene is happy, either. So what is it?”  
  
Her questions weren’t from mere curiosity. Skyhold had its own eluvian. If someone was corrupting them, someone who wasn’t only after Morrigan, she might have left them undefended against a threat they knew nothing about.  
  
Seemed a letter to Bull was in order.  
  
The marquise smiled thinly. “He was right about you, Inquisitor.” She glanced at the clock on the far wall and stood up, her breakfast still untouched. The Dalish in Mara, who had never quite gotten used to Skyhold’s extravagant feasts, wondered at the waste of it. But this was Orlais, of course, where nibbling (or not nibbling) on a biscuit was a political act. “I have duties I must attend to. Forgive me.”  
  
Mara stood up as well, Josephine’s etiquette lessons not having gone entirely to waste. “Very well.”  
  
Briala paused at the door. “Meet me tonight in my study, Inquisitor. I will show you what you should truly fear in the eluvians,” she said, sparing them a backwards glance. “You will not be harmed here. Of that, at least, I can assure you.”  
  
Mara and Morrigan were left alone with silence and scones, neither of them much convinced.  


* * *

 

Mara wandered the winding corridors of Briala’s manor, lost in thought.  
  
Mythal. Corypheus. Ameridan. Fen’Harel.  
  
It seemed she had a knack for getting in the way of ancient legends.

Legends that never turned out to be what she expected.

The Maker could hold a certain appeal, in that light. For all of the Andrastian angst over his absence, at least you could be sure he'd never show up on your doorstep.  
  
“That is not something you can fix, Cole," an all-too familiar voice said, just around the corner.  
  
She stumbled backward, her heart clenching. She pressed herself against the wall, instincts screaming at her to stay unseen.  
  
Eavesdropping was beneath the Inquisitor. Mara Lavellan, though, had some history as a spy, and could not bring herself to feel guilty. What was the saying? _When in Orlais..._  
  
Cole sounded as agitated as he had when he’d left them on the city streets. “I can’t—it’s not—you took it, but now it’s here!”  
  
“I took it to spare you further pain,” Solas said. “Forgive me.”  
  
Cole wasn’t soothed. “It isn’t that simple. _Please_. It can’t be not there, and then here. It doesn’t make sense; it _hurts_.”  
  
“I see,” he said. “Then I will return it to you.”  
  
For a moment, Mara could only hear her heart beating. Then Cole gasped.

"Oh," he whispered.  
  
“Is that better?” She could so clearly imagine the grim twist to his mouth.  
  
“Yes,” Cole breathed, and then paused. “No. This hurts, too.”  
  
“And so you see my predicament. What you had knowledge of would put you in a precarious position at Skyhold."  
  
"They wouldn't have hurt me," Cole said, sounding very sure. "They protect me."

"I have seen too many organizations pushed to cruelty by desperation to share your optimism, I'm afraid."

"It is better to know than not to know,” Cole said, “You say that knowledge is better than ignorance, even when it hurts.” Mara wished she could see their faces. “You need to tell her.”  
  
Solas sighed. “That is an argument we do not need to revisit.”  
  
“I missed you,” Cole said after a moment, low and plaintive.  
  
“It is good to see you as well,” said Solas. He sounded so tired.  
  
She couldn’t stand it anymore.  
  
Before she could convince herself otherwise, she stepped around the corner to meet them, footsteps deliberately heavy.  
  
"Sorry to interrupt," she said.  
  
The flash of surprise on Solas' face was quickly suppressed; Cole merely smiled. He, of course, had known she was there all along.  
  
"Inquisitor," Solas said, nodding. He was in the same black clothing he’d worn the day before, and in the light of day, it only further emphasized the dark circles under his eyes and the pale sheen to his skin.  
  
He looked _exhausted_. It was a shock to see it; he’d always been very well-rested, so much so that it used to make her envious. What could keep Solas awake and away from the Fade?  
  
She crossed her arms over her chest, willing her heart to quiet. She had no business worrying about him, now. This was not the time or place for feelings. She needed information, and if Briala was going to run her in circles, she needed to try another approach. She didn't need to tell him about the orb—he owed her some answers, and she didn't feel particularly inclined to volunteer her secrets in return.

Gods. What had her life come to, that _Solas_ was her best hope for a straight answer?  
  
"Cole, do you mind? I think it's time that Solas and I spoke privately."  
  
With an uneasy glance between them, Cole nodded, and with some reluctance, he disappeared.  
  
Solas seemed to look right through her. "I fear that there are few truly private places in Orlais, Inquisitor."  
  
"Just one will suffice." She had little doubt he had his hideaways, if he'd been there for as long as Briala claimed.  
  
He nodded, glancing down the dark hallway to his left. "Very well." He moved as though to walk away, and then stopped, staring down at the stones under his feet for a moment.

He looked up, finally meeting her eyes, and something in his expression twisted—some pained mixture of grief, anger, guilt, and more she couldn't name.

"You should leave this place," he said, voice low, and he glanced away again. "Nothing good can come of it."

She clamped down on the feeling in her chest that threatened to spill over.

"It's a little late for that," she said.

There was a great deal more she wanted to say. But the gulf between them was a near-physical presence, and she didn't have the words.

He frowned, but nodded, face going blank again. Without another word, he turned and strode away, not waiting to see if she followed.

She straightened her shoulders, steeling herself with a deep breath, and fell into step behind him.


End file.
